I gethim.
Milo Markev stands across the courtyard, surrounded by people far too oblivious to recognise the danger threadedthrough him, most of them girls fawning over him as if he’s anything more than a loaded weapon with a pulse.
Even from here, he carries the arrogance of a man raised to believe the world will always bend to his will.
Bratva blood.
I keep my eyes on him, watching the tilt of his glass, his mouth visible beneath the mask pushed up onto his forehead. Ferrum Syndicate black, an X slashed where the eyes should be, a grotesque puppet sketched across the surface.
He takes another sip, and I almost smile.
Drink it all, pretty boy.
A girl leans into him, murmuring something against his ear. His smirk doesn’t falter as he inclines his head and gestures toward the mansion, his gaze glassy even at this distance.
I roll my eyes. Some people are so monumentally foolish it physically pains me.
I can already see how this little performance will play out, he’ll lead her inside, find an empty room, and proceed with whatever filth sits rotting in that bloodline of his.
Because that bloodline is tainted beyond repair, and nothing will ever cleanse it.
My jaw tightens as the girl—Talia Venter, a first-year at St. Monarche´—flashes through my mind.
I only overheard her by accident, though she was loud enough that half of Elaris Isle must have heard her breaking down.
She was sobbing, shaking, insisting he hurt her, drugged her… raped her.
It took nothing more than a name for me to believe her.
Because men like him don’t change.
Men like him don’t stop.
Especially a Markev.
And that’s where I come in.
I slip into the house after him, keeping a careful distance.
Markev is barely holding his weight now, I see him lean toward that girl, murmur something, and she nods with a pout before turning and drifting back into the party.
Good.
He dismissed her himself, saves me the trouble.
The corridor is dim and empty, lined with artwork that’s clearly worth a fortune.
They’re impressive, even captivating in their detail, but I’m not here to appreciate them.
My pulse remains steady, my hand stays loose at my side.
He chooses a room upstairs,the door left slightly ajar. I hear the soft click of a cupboard, the muted rustle of clothing.
I drift toward the door, keeping myself tucked in the shadows as I angle for a better view inside.
He’s still wearing his mask, his hoodie lies crumpled on the floor, leaving him in nothing but his jeans.
He’s enormous.
